Darkness of the Mind in Night-Vision
by JEC00k
Summary: Freelance journalist Eric Cartman goes to explore the Bechdel-Holtz Asylum late at night, following a handful of mysterious leads. And inside the asylum, ex-employee Kyle Broflovski does his absolute best to not die as the asylum spirals into chaos. Kyman. Outlast inspired/AU.
1. Chapter 1

Cartman had sort of fallen into the whole journalism gig, and given that he was a freelancer meant that he fell into his cheap car and cheap apartment as well. Most of his extra cash went straight to new supplies: better camera, more batteries, detachable boom mic. The only thing that kept him from starving or sleeping in his car was his willingness to chase down risky - well, absurdly dangerous - stories.

Which was how he ended up driving along the Rocky Mountain slopes to Bechdel-Holtz Center: a well-established asylum for the certifiably fucked up. Oh, and it was in the dead of night. 11:08 PM, to be exact.

Cartman couldn't say he felt particularly happy about the lead. He was following a scattered trail of strange press statements from the facility's head scientists, some haunting but unreliable posts on an online complaint forum, and one unusual report from a local hunter. He wouldn't have ever even considered coming if it weren't for the email that had landed in his inbox four days ago.

The whole situation was either going to be dull and pointless and unsuccessful or horrifying and revealing and profitable. He hadn't yet figured out which alternative he preferred.

He parked at the front of the gate, stood on top of his car, and hoisted himself over the metal gate. His landing sucked, objectively. It wasn't like he had ever researching parkour, but now he almost considered it. "How to land a high jump" was pretty much parkour 101. As he slugged his way to the front door, Cartman tried to ignore the dull ache in his legs from his bad landing and the tight warning in his chest as he approached. Instead, he flipped open his handheld camera to check the battery. Nearly 100%. Good. His large camera, safe in its case, thumped against his back as he hopped up the stairs - not eager, just trying to finish and get home and either write up the story or pout with a bag of cheesy poofs and some COD.

Unsurprisingly, the front door was locked. Crazy people did live here, and other crazies might try to get in.

So Cartman huffed, knit his brows, and started circling the perimeter. All he needed was an open window, and hell if he didn't take the time to start filming.

"Seeing so many broken windows is suspicious enough, people of America, but," Cartman zoomed his camera to a broken window on the third story, "There's blood on that window pane - on the glass, too. Working for so long in this field, I have a trained eye for spotting just such things." It wasn't much, but Cartman was sure of what he saw. Below and to the right of that window, one window had been left open. The only entrance that wasn't a broken glass hazard, unlike most other windows around the institute.

"Okay you guys, I'm going to sign out for a bit while I try to get in through that window. I'll be back on once I'm in." And Cartman cut the video. The small handheld had a durable strap that hung loosely around his neck. Cartman threw it under his arm and around his back while he searched for a way to climb up the window.

The most straightforward approach would be to slowly climb the brick outside wall up to the second story window. There might be some small pinch holds that Cartman could grip. Except that it would hurt. And be tiring.

He started to walk around. He needed something that could get him to that second-story window. As he paced the grounds, Cartman took note of the scaffolding - issue being that the would-be helpful structure was around the corner of the building, and the windows there were likely locked tight or riddled with broken glass. There was one tree near the window Cartman wanted, but the branches were far too thin and would likely break under his (admittedly) heavier weight.

Eric Cartman was by no means fit. Somehow his line of work never led to him losing weight - he ate cheap and unhealthy food just so that he could survive, and spent more time sitting in libraries or on his couch researching potential leads than actually running after a story. He was, as some other freelancers like to point out, fat. It made his job harder, yet Cartman never did anything to change the fact. He liked how he looked. And he didn't much care to look like some skinny white boy twink, either.

There were some scattered broken boards lying about, and even a metal chair on the side of the building. Tall metal fencing connected the main building to the brick walls that lined the grounds. It was that diamond-shaped wire fencing. Cartman knew how to climb that - every kid climbed metal fences. But this fence had barbed wire looped over the top.

Cartman stood a minute to weigh his two options: risk the thin-branched tree and climb to his perfect second-story window, or attempt to safely climb over the barbed wire. Except that even getting past the fence might not help him - for all he knew, all those doors were locked, just like the front door. Then he'd be stuck on the other side of the barbed wire, and have to risk getting cut up _again_ just to get back to his car.

Cartman started for the tree.

The first few branches were easy. Get a good grip, then heft himself up. He ascended slowly, taking each step with care. Find a good hold, test his weight by pulling slowly, then commit. First put his foot on a slightly higher branch, then shift his weight to that foot, then reach one branch higher. He was soon just below the window, but the branches were thinner here. Too thin. They bent, and the tree trunk leaned ever so slightly. It already bobbed in the wind, and Cartman's weight wasn't helping. So he committed to the window. Pushed off and jumped. The branches beneath his feet snapped as he launched. Cartman flailed for a grip on the sill. He surprised himself as he caught it and found himself laughing in his own shock. He slung his other arm up to grip the window sill and, with some determination and a heave, he pulled himself inside.

Cartman sat on the carpet and panted for a moment before he collected himself, righting first his cameras and second his clothes. He gripped his handheld and flipped open the viewscreen. He had to adjust for the lighting a bit (it was still dark inside, just now indoors-dark rather than moonlight-dark, as it was outside), and pressed record.

"I'm in. Sorry that it's so dark. Let me switch to night-vision." Cartman fiddled with his camera for a moment.

"That's better. Well, not better, but at least we can see what's going on in here. No obvious signs of disturbance, but it is strangely quiet." Cartman searched the walls for a light switch but found nothing. A lamp stood in one corner, but when Cartman tried the string, nothing happened. "So... looks like the lights are out," he said to his camera. "I'm going to continue searching, but I might not talk to you guys much more."

The door squeaked like a mouse as Cartman pulled it open. He winced at the noise and walked through the doorway into a hall. The lights were out here, as well, and Cartman wasn't going to waste time searching for a light switch. So he proceeded to walk down the hall. The floorboards creaked as badly as the door, and Cartman hated that the creaks and groans of the wood were the only noises in the dark. The silence put him on edge, though he supposed it was better than hearing even creepier noises - noises that he didn't cause. Cartman knocked gently on a wood door frame at the thought. He really didn't want to start hearing other sounds right now.

A light was on in the hall just a few more doors down. The light came from a door left slightly open, and the light from within cast a sliver of yellow onto the green and pink flowery wallpaper. Cartman took his time pushing open the door and entering the room, afraid that someone might be waiting within. The door opened all the way and hit against the wall behind, slowly swinging back toward Cartman. No one came to check the door, no one made a noise, so Cartman took that as his go-ahead to enter.

There was indeed a lamp on; it stood in the corner of the room. A couple of couches sat around a couple of coffee tables and a flatscreen TV. The TV was on, but it was just solid blue, bathing the room in its light. The lamp lit up the room in a soft, warm yellow, and together the two lights cast the whole place a sickly green-yellow-blue combination. Cartman didn't really think about the TV or the lamp or the light, though. His eyes and his camera were completely trained on the only person in the room, and man, half dressed and sitting on the couch directly in front of the screen. He wore a light-blue t-shirt and sat hunched over, staring at the blue screen. He did not move. He hardly even blinked.

Behind the couches was a puddle of blood and the floor was smeared all over with trails of blood. Bare footprints were left all over the floor, also red from blood. Cartman couldn't convince himself it was simply red paint or something stupid. It had to be blood - what else made any logical sense? And on the wall opposite the TV, written in blood, read a message:

 _Walls_

 _Halls_

 _Say_

 _Away_

In order, repeating, over and over, covering the entire wall.

Cartman walked away, backed out into the hall, and kept walking, much faster than he had before, toward the end of the hall.

* * *

The hallway led into a larger area - a huge room with an extra high ceiling. The second-floor landing ringed the perimeter of the room, overlooking the reception desk in the center of the room. Across the large room, Cartman saw the entrance to the building. Or better yet - the exit. He had footage now of a room covered in blood, an unmoving man, plenty of broken windows, and now... this shit.

The second-floor landing was covered in strewn about chairs, boxes, and broken shelving. The first floor looked much worse. Blood covered the front of the reception desk. A security guard slumped in his seat, his shirt stained with blood. His hat was pulled over his face but seemed a bit too close to his back. It even covered his neck. Cartman got a sick feeling in his stomach as he considered a twisted possibility: that hat was only covering up a severed neck.

The floor had smears of blood across the carpet, and plenty of stains from footprints tracking the blood around as well. But hey, at least the lights were on. Cartman fumbled with his camera to turn the night vision off once he realized he didn't need it anymore.

He took a shuddering breath and spoke to his audience, voice echoing slightly in the silence of the grand room. "Well, shit," he started. "I can see the exit, so I'm going to go ahead and try to get the fuck out of here. I just need to find the stairs to get down there." Cartman began exploring the walkway, glancing at signs on doors to see if any were helpfully labeled "Stairs."

None were. There were offices and storage rooms, sure, but no stairs. Cartman reached the other side of the room and groaned. He really did not want to go poking into the next wing of the building - God only knew what crazy shit was over there. Cartman leaned a bit on the railing and stared longingly at the ground below him. For a brief moment, he entertained the notion of just jumping down. It was only a one-story jump, so technically someone only ran a small chance of severe injury. Except Cartman had no idea how to stick a landing - he couldn't even jump from the gate without hurting his knees, never mind a second-story interior balcony. He'd break his leg or ankle or some shit. Fuck up his wrist. Cartman sighed and leaned back from the railing and turned back to his own floor.

He had looked back at the landing just in time, too, because a man stood just thirty or so feet away. Cartman zoomed his camera in on the man. He wore loose beige pants and a v-neck shirt, both dirty with mysterious brown grime (dirt?) and deep red, clearly dried, blood. Cartman swallowed a lump in his throat, which only seemed to make the lump larger.

"I want to see if fat men fly."

Cartman blinked. "Excuse me?"

The man shuddered and opened his mouth again, slowly, then shrieked, "I want to see if fat men fly!" And he ran forward, right at Cartman.

Cartman yelled in fear and turned to the door closest to him, jostling the handle. Locked. Shit. Shit, shit, shi-

The man was strong. For all of his weight, Cartman was wrestled away from the door by the man. He yelled and clawed at the attacker, but to no avail. The man didn't care that Cartman clawed open his arms, he didn't care if Cartman hit him. He hefted and pushed Cartman, who kicked and kicked and kicked, right up until he tipped over the rail. Nothing below him but air, Cartman fell toward the first-floor carpet below.

He could hear the crazed man whooping with delight, and yelling with joy, "He flies! He flies! He-"

Cartman hit the ground.


	2. Chapter 2

Four days before Cartman flung himself into Bechdel-Holtz, Kyle Broflovski stood up from his work computer, walked away from everything the company was asking of him, and stared down from a window. It wasn't his window - Kyle didn't have a window. (He did have a succulent, though. He liked to call it "Gerald," named for his deranged father. Kyle didn't like his father, but he liked his plant. It put a smile on his face, despite the drudgery of his job and the mounting evidence of corruption in the asylum.)

The window.

Lately, Kyle became distracted so easily. His thoughts wandered away from work and from family and instead off into the woods and down trails that had no visible end. His work slowed. Not that it mattered - Kyle had typed up an email and sent it to every journalist's inbox he could find. He would expose this hellhole. It would burn just as it deserved to.

Right, the window. He opened it. Kyle needed the air. With the email finally sent, it was high-time Kyle took a moment to breathe. He propped his elbows up on the windowsill. It was a nice place to get some air; Kyle's cubicle was in a suffocating room with no windows and by far too many silent workers, but this quiet game room, while intended for patients, was empty today. It usually was. So Kyle took his lunch break in this room, as he did on many days. He really… he needed the quiet.

He wouldn't be getting that today, though. The door to the lounge swung open, followed by a couple of suits and a handful of lab coats entering. Kyle stood bolt upright.

"Mr. Broflovski?" one of the men asked.

Kyle met his eyes: hard, cold, blue - this man's soul was as dark as his black suit. Kyle responded, "That's me."

Kyle had wondered if they would come. If they knew what he was doing all along. If they were watching. Now, it looked as though Kyle's suspicion was being confirmed.

"You've been reported to be unwell lately. The company would like you to be formally evaluated - for safety concerns." The man smiled as he spoke, the kind of smile that's supposed to be warm but only belies the coldness of a person's heart.

"Oh," Kyle said, "I see. Would you like me to set up a time for this evaluation? Tomorrow, perhaps?"

The group smiled. "No," the man said. "Right now would be best."

Kyle knew he had no choice. He went with the doctors.

* * *

He was weighed, his height measured, was asked questions. His medical history. Childhood development. It took nearly two hours, if Kyle estimated correctly. The room Kyle sat in was simple. White walls, a sink, a counter, a stool (with wheels), one armchair with a cushion that slowly released air as Kyle sat on it, and one of those doctor's office kind of almost-beds that people insisted on calling an examination "table." A simple examination room. No posters. The small room didn't even have a window.

The nurse sat on the stool, Kyle in the armchair. There was no noise as the air slowly let out of the cushion. Kyle did scowl, slightly, though he had more reasons than sitting in a cheap armchair for him to scowl over.

Kyle wondered why the nurse had to ask all these questions. He was certain that the asylum would have collected information on him prior to hiring. But perhaps, what if they hadn't?

Or maybe they just wanted to watch Kyle's reactions, his personal answers, not just the facts given in his file.

The nurse hunched slightly, a trait which became more obvious when he sat. The man took notes by hand, leaning over a clipboard while tapping his foot against one of the wheels of his stool. _Tap tap tap. Tap tap. Tap tap._ Then, he would ask another question. _"Did you get along with authority?"_ he would ask.

 _"For the most part, yes."_ Kyle would answer.

 _"Did you get sick often as a child?"_

 _"More than other kids, but not too often."_

The nurse would nod, his dark curls bobbing up and down over his ears. He would jot down some notes _(tap tap tap)_ , then ask more questions.

 _"Do you still get sick more often than your peers?"_ Kyle had met the nurse's eyes then. They were soft and dark; steady and kind. This was a man who thought he was doing his job honestly. This was a man living unaware of the inhumane testing, the experiments, the abuse, the torture, the lies and deceit and blood running through the halls of this asylum, the very one this man worked for. It was for the best. If he knew, then maybe he would be sitting in an uncomfortable armchair, fear in his kind, dark eyes, being questioned on his history. Would he go quietly? Would he fight? Would he scream and kick and run? Kyle sat. Motionless.

 _"I suppose,"_ Kyle answered after a moment. There was no need to get into his own head, to see some emotion or kindness in a stranger's eyes. Kyle didn't know this nurse. He didn't know what all this man knew, what he lived with. Kyle was only pretending. Projecting. He was imagining what he wanted to see in a stranger right now - kindness, innocence.

Eventually, the nurse left, and Kyle sat alone in the room.

The lightbulb buzzed - a small, tinny noise that sounded almost like the ringing Kyle got in his ears so often. It sounded so damn annoying.

The room. Kyle scanned his eyes across it for the hundredth time since being led in by the group of doctors and executives, but it was his first time taking in the room without anyone watching him. Perhaps there was camera surveillance. Kyle couldn't see anything on the ceiling aside from a sprinkler, a fire alarm, and a smoke detector. It didn't mean the room was camera-free, but Kyle was willing to assume he wasn't being watched.

Under the sink and counter were cabinets and drawers, and more cabinets were on the wall above the counter. Kyle stood, in order to search the drawers, when the door opened.

The nurse had returned, a weak smile across his copper-toned face and some folded clothes in his arms. "Sorry, I almost forgot. Please change into these. A doctor will be in to see you soon." The nurse deposited the clothes into Kyle's arms, which Kyle held out stiffly. And then the man shuffled out again. The door clicked, and then the buzzing was all that remained.

After a full second of rigid silence, Kyle turned his gaze down to the clothes. They were neatly folded. He could imagine them in some closet, full of baggy gowns and cotton pants and sleeveless shirts, each oversized to compensate for body diversity. Kyle toed off his slip-on dress shoes and pulled off his black socks. He placed both on the armchair, where they sat without causing the cushion to lose air. Then his belt, draping it over the back of the chair; his pants, folding them, setting them on the chair, pulling on the white cotton pants. The waistband was stretchy and itched around his hips, too tight from not being stretched enough, and the pant legs were creased down the side from being folded for so long. Next his shirt, unbuttoning it, unrushed. It sat on the chair as well. The pile looked so neat - light green shirt, black slacks, black shoes, simple black belt, and black socks, all carefully folded and placed on the armchair. Kyle pulled on the cotton shirt. It was a sleeveless v-neck style and too baggy for Kyle's slim frame. He wondered what he looked like, but there were no mirrors in the room. No slippers, either, though Kyle rationalized that the floors must be cleaned thoroughly and regularly.

Then again, considering the rest of the corruption, they might not be cleaned very well or very often.

But considering how many employees worked here every day as if things were normal, completely ignorant to the grand corruption of the asylum, they would clean as they would at any other mental hospital. That's what Kyle rationalized, at least. Reality was an unknown, too far off, and not worth investigating too far anymore.

Kyle sat right on the edge of the examination table, let his feet hang, and waited for the doctor to open the door and decide which step into Hell Kyle would take next.

He waited.

Kyle had no watch - his had broken the week before and was still waiting to buy a replacement. He also didn't have his phone - he'd left it on his desk.

He pondered the fate of his things at his desk: that everything could be thrown away or given to other employees, employees who wouldn't know Kyle. They who wouldn't recognize that succulent as the very succulent belonging to the ginger communications assistant who suddenly stopped working for Bechdel-Holtz. The one who went insane, who had to be committed for the safety of others. His desk suddenly empty, the game lounge he so often ate lunch in left permanently empty, the window left open so that only the ghost of Kyle Broflovski could stare out at the gates. Kyle Broflovski won't have windows anymore, just the small window on his cell door, with only other cells to gaze at.

His wallet was in his pants pocket, but he figured it didn't matter much anymore. If he tried to keep it on him, a doctor or nurse would likely take it from him. As for his clothes, sitting neatly on the armchair, Kyle supposed they would be disposed of. Even if his clothes and things were stored, he didn't expect to get them back.

In sending that email, Kyle has signed his own death warrant. Whatever lay ahead, he had already given in to it. Whatever they did to him, Kyle had, hopefully-God, hopefully-caused the first domino to fall. Reporters would come, police would come, and maybe Kyle would still be alive and sane when they came. He might be free.

He groaned. Kyle was getting bored. And depressed. The more he thought about his potential fate here, the more hollow he felt. And the goddamn buzzing of the all-too-bright light bulb wasn't helping his mood. The walls reflected the light too well, making everything just slightly too bright to look at. Kyle felt himself squinting. He was getting a headache. The longer he was left alone in the tiny room, the more Kyle imagined he might really go insane.

It felt like it'd been forever since his nurse left. So Kyle decided "fuck it" and started rifling through the drawers and cabinets. He found disposable gloves, popsicle sticks, cotton swabs, Petri dishes, tissues, and other things, but nothing immediately useful. Kyle wished his pants had pockets so that he could at least take some of these things for later.

Kyle huffed and sat back on the examination table. After another unknowable amount of time, he lay down across the table. It was more like a bed, anyway. It was beginning to feel like forever had passed. Technically, the door was unlocked. Kyle could just open it up and see if anyone was around. But he figured they might just abuse him if he did that. God and Kyle both knew these people treated normal patients like that, why not their prisoner-patient as well?

The longer he lay on the table, the closer to sleep Kyle drifted. Eventually, Kyle felt himself slipping in and out of dreams. They were vague; a claustrophobic forest with distant figures running like the shadows of birds, too fast and indistinct to follow. The shadowy figures ran and laughed and screamed and howled. Kyle would blink and see the white walls of the room, but then be back in the forest. The room seemed to dim, it's white walls cast with the shadows of tree trunks. Beyond the walls and through the trees, the figures ran and yelled through the darkness. His eyes would slip shut and the forest would take over almost completely, but each time Kyle opened his eyes and returned to the room, it dimmed and grew more trees. When Kyle closed them again, the forest seemed to move from the dead of night and into twilight. Kyle could almost make out the figures who screamed among the trees, wearing white coats and blue scrubs, yelling and screaming and shrieking. The forest buzzed. The sound seemed so familiar. The buzzing blended with the howls and laughter of the figures until it became a cacophony of buzzing cackles, like cicadas in summer. Kyle lay on the forest floor and listened and watched, waiting for the figures to run in his direction. They never did. They couldn't reach him nor see him; his door was locked and he had no windows.

Kyle had no idea how long he spent in his half-sleep, but eventually, he opened his eyes all the way and focused on the walls of his blank room. He kept trying to blink away the dream, but somehow he could still hear the cackling laughter and the screams and the howls.

As Kyle woke up fully, he realized that the screams weren't limited to his dreams. They echoed as if underwater, blocked from entering his room by the closed door. Kyle slid off the bed. He stood at the door, listening. While in this same room, Kyle had begun to make his peace with death, with insanity, with torture and experiments and small white rooms with cots and only himself to listen to. Kyle listened to the echoes, to the buzzing light bulb, and opened the unlocked door.

* * *

 **This chapter felt a bit weird to write, so I hope it turned out okay. Feedback is always welcome, btw! :D Thanks so much for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

Somewhere in a dimly lit part of Cartman's mind, he remembered everything he had researched about The Bechdel-Holtz Center. The conspiracy theories from Reddit and other forum websites buzzed in his mind like a cloud of gnats, each one indistinguishable from the others. Fucking hell, he shouldn't have come here. He should have picked some other story, a different lead. But that email - someone from within the center, a guy named Kyle Broflovski who worked in communications, had released his personal testimony regarding his experience with The Bechdel-Holtz Center. He said a few brief words about inhumane testing, using the patients as unwilling subjects, committing patients who didn't need to be kept in the asylum. Broflovski sent no proof, though. Most places ignored his email, but Cartman spent enough time digging through internet communities of conspiracy theorists to have heard similar stories about Bechdel-Holtz; parents and friends talking about loved ones being committed, never seen again. These stories were always taken down from the various forums they were posted on after only a few days of going up, then screenshots or copies of the original post would resurface on a different site, only to be taken down again soon after. Cartman didn't recall individual stories as he lay on the floor, only vague memories of testing, lies, false reports, disappearances. But nothing like this; this place looked like it had been turned upside down and then put through a bloody blender.

Cartman had fallen. He was on the floor now. His body felt numb - all over. His back; it hurt. After he fell… should he be hurt worse? Was he hurt worse? Oh, god, fuck - that guy had pushed him over the rail. How long had it been? Was that guy still up there?

Cartman opened his eyes to the high ceiling of the main lobby. Moonlight streamed through the skylights. Cartman could make out the moon itself peaking between clouds, the light glimmering sharper than normal due to his squinted eyes. Maybe trying to rate his pain would help. Cartman focused on the ache across his back. Okay, yeah, it was bad, but not horribly so. His head pounded worse than his back, he realized now that he was really thinking about it. Maybe his back was only at a… a four, on the pain scale. Yeah, a four. His head throbbed closer to a six, but not a sharp pain. Just a typical throbbing, aching pain. Cartman decided it was survivable. He had to get up, get out of this asylum, and then he could succumb to whatever pain he was suffering from.

He started to sit up.

His head swum through the grand entrance, pulling his eyes slowly through the heavy syrup that his sight became. The browns and blacks of the wood and walls and chairs blended like wet paints on a palette.

Cartman laid back down. Maybe he should rest, just for a little. Then he could get up and out and back to his car. Oh god. Climbing. He would need to jump the gate again. God, fuck, he might as well just pass out and fucking die. How was he going to climb in this kind of physical condition?

Jesus, he couldn't think about that yet. Future problems for future Eric Cartman. Present Cartman had enough shit to work through, enough questions he couldn't answer, at least, not on his own.

What happened to this place?

Something must have gone wrong. (Of-fucking-course.) Within the four days between that email from Kyle Broflovski to when Cartman arrived, somehow, somewhere along the lines, this place fell into chaos. A hellhole. And Cartman had just fallen further in.

He needed to climb out, and that started with standing up, or at least sitting up. Cartman pushed himself into a sitting position. His head drowned itself: his hearing sloshed underwater, muffled like when he'd been a kid playing listening games at the local pool; his eyes stopped focusing as his vision blurred under the molasses of his head - an injury. All Cartman had to do was wait. It would go away. It would get better.

So he stayed that way, sitting up with unfocused eyes and head lolled forward, heavy on his sore neck and aching back until his vision finally cleared to an almost normal state and the weight of his head became bearable.

"Okay," Cartman said, speaking out loud for the first time since falling. He throat scratched painfully when he spoke. Water - Cartman needed water. After fall like that - being out cold for an unknown amount of time - his body wanted something, some water or maybe even some food. He tried to think through solutions: he could find a kitchen, find some food and water, or at least a bathroom. It would have sinks, so Cartman could get something to drink from there.

No, no, he needed to fucking prioritize and priority number one was getting the fuck out of this place. Stand, he thought. There is only one way out of here and that is to get up and walk. His head pounded as he did it, but Cartman stood. His weight felt so heavy on his feet, beyond tired, beyond exhausted, all the way to feeling as if gravity was pulling on him with more force than it pulled on any other being or object on Earth. Cartman felt his bones crumbling into weak and useless dust, his muscles sinking against the core of the planet, his eyes rolling back and betraying him. This feeling felt so far beyond exhaustion that Cartman wondered if English even had a word for it. One foot dragged after another and slowly, surely, Cartman forced himself to move. He would make it to the door, he would make it to the gate, and he would jump that gate and make it to his car and start the car and make it home and drive right back to his shitty apartment and never come back to The Bechdel-Holtz Center.

He collapsed a few feet from the door. He was awake, but not standing. "Really letting myself down today, huh?" Cartman muttered into the carpet. A soft, brown carpet. Not too low, not too high. Very average, but soft. Cartman kept his eyes open long enough to realize that there wasn't even any blood around him; despite drops and splashes and pools of blood covering so much of the room, Cartman lay in a very clean area. How nice. Almost funny, really. He laughed a little into the soft, brown, average carpet.

Maybe his head was bleeding - how was he to know? He couldn't really move his hand to check. He was too weak. Weak, that's what he was. He'd been weak since he was a child. God, couldn't even bother to get in shape, huh, Cartman? He groaned against his own train of thought. His normal consciousness was mixing with his self-deprecating side, confusing him and meshing his anxieties and hateful nature with his normal self. He'd even tried so hard to get better. He'd been positive, he'd gone easy on himself, he'd challenged himself to new opportunities, and he'd been thrown over a banister from the second story of a building down to the first floor. He'd probably landed on all his camera equipment.

Oh god. That was all of his shit.

That shit was too expensive to just get smashed to nothingness because some lunatic wanted to murder him.

Cartman couldn't even dwell on the hauntingly sobering thought of someone attempting to actually murder him - he sat up faster than any rational part of his mind would have ever allowed and ripped open the zipper to his camera bag. Inventory. Shit shit shit. He pulled everything out and laid it all in front of him: his large camera, safe in its case, was somehow fine, though the mic arm was broken. Fuck it, he would have to replace it. At least it was only an attachment; the actual camera would have been so much more to replace. His lenses were all fine, including the one in his second bag, the one for his smaller. His handheld camera itself had been in his hand when he fell. Now, it was gone.

Cartman shot right up and scanned for where it lay. It must have rolled or bounced or fallen differently or been thrown out of Cartman's grip when he fell, but it somehow ended up next to the reception desk.

The desk was a big circle, all covered in blood. It stank. Cartman normally would have cared; he would have been repulsed, covered his nose or backed away or moved in slower but not then - he wanted his camera. He needed to make sure it was okay. He darted over, scooped it up, and hurriedly checked every part. He checked every visual function he could think of before lovingly pulling it tight against his chest. Cartman closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose, long and with shaking effort, then let it out slowly through his mouth. When he opened his eyes, he saw the sudden reminder of the guard whose hat sat just a little too low compared to his neck.

The body sat in a chair, slumped, the man's hat placed on his severed neck with care. On the ground next to the chair in clear view from where Cartman now stood (but, of course, not in clear view from above) was his head, eyes wide open, still shocked at seeing their attacker. Cartman thought about swallowing the lump in his throat, but he couldn't; he was paralyzed. He couldn't pull his eyes away from the body unless it was to stare at those unblinking eyes. Cartman's breathing was so stiff, shuddering air through his nose slowly. Cartman stared and stared and stared at the dead man. His thoughts darted between ideas, notions of the people in the asylum. People would do this. How? With what? The cut was so clean - his head must have been cut from his neck so quickly, so easily. What kind of blade did the murderer use? How did the murderer even find something capable of that? Fucking fuck, Cartman's stomach churned with acid but he couldn't take his eyes away from the dead security guard. The weight of his injury resurfaced, reminding him that he didn't have the stamina to keep standing and staring at the murdered man. But he still stood there. He still stared. And the guard still sat, slumped. Limp. No longer alive. Dead.

Cartman might've stood there until he died if not for the sound of soft footsteps behind him. He snapped around to look.

A young man stood across the reception hall. A young man in loose, dirtied patient garments. A patient. He held a knife - a knife dripping with blood.

* * *

 **I really should have written more considering how long it's been, but here is chapter 3! I hope you all enjoyed. As always, I very much appreciate favorites and reviews. I really love to hear from people and it helps motivate me to write more. Thanks so much for reading and I love you all. 3**


	4. Chapter 4

Hey guys, I never get as much traffic over here as I do on AO3, so I'm moving my fanfics from now on over there. I might double post more in the future but I'm "jecook" if you wanna find me there. DM me if you have any trouble and thanks for reading!


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